Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (11 page)

After the priest asked if she consented to the marriage
, she spoke the words used for centuries,
“Quando tu Gaius, ego Gaia.
When-and-where you are Gaius; I then-and-there am Gaia.” She squeezed Artorius’ hands as he repeated the words to her, his voice shaking slightly with emotion.

The priest signaled for them to sit on the stools, and taking pieces of the honey cake he offered one first to the altar in honor of Jupiter, and gave the others
to Artorius and Diana to eat. Once they had signed the legally binding contract, Artorius had done what he feared would never happen the year prior; he had married his Lady Diana. Nothing could have made them happier.

Olennius
hated traveling by cart. He also hated traveling by horse, boat, or any other means for that matter. The fact that he was not at his posting, and had had to wait an entire year for it, irritated him to no end. He was quite the hateful person, having spent his entire life full of suspicion and spite. He blamed his father for his demeanor, though the poor man had died before Olennius was even born. Still, it was that lack of paternal guidance that he used as a crutch to justify his abusive behavior. Only one man, Senator Asinius Gallus, had shown him any sort of fond feelings at all. In fact, he had become Olennius’ sponsor from a young age and had gotten him his posting as a Centurion within the legions. The legions…Olennius hated the legions, perhaps because the familiarity and brotherhood that permeated the ranks had been denied him due to the fact that absolutely no one whom he had been stationed with remotely liked him. Thankfully his required tenure had come to a merciful end, though not before he had fattened his coffers exacting additional tributes in the east, both from the citizenry, as well as his own legionaries.

“How much bloody farther is it?” he snapped at his freedman who accompanied him in the carriage.

“Another day, sir,” the man replied stoically. Olennius knew the servant hated him, enough to wish him dead, no doubt. It did not matter. The only reason the little rat was free was because Olennius’ mother had granted him his freedom in her will. Whether he stayed with Olennius out of loyalty to his deceased matron, or because no one would hire him given where he had worked before, was uncertain.

  
“Another day,” Olennius replied with a bored sigh. “Let me see those taxation reports again.”

The servant reluctantly handed the scrolls over.

“It’s pretty simple, sir,” the freedman stated. “The tribute for Frisia has been the same since the time of Drusus Nero. The people have always complied, as well as providing auxiliary troops when required. In return, Rome gives Frisia imperial protection while allowing the Segon Kings to rule semi-autonomously.”

“Yes, well the prior magistrates lacked imagination,” Olennius replied with a sneer.
“I have plans for this province, plans that go beyond Drusus Nero’s mere dole of cattle hides.”

“And what may I ask is your plan for the province?” the freedman asked.

The look of concern gave Olennius a certain amount of satisfaction.

“You will see,” he said with an evil grin. “
Thorn in my side you may be, but I think you will be thanking me after we are done here. If I have to live in some shithole on the North Sea, then I will do so in comfort. Consider yourself lucky that you have me for an employer and not someone without any desire to better their position in life.”

Chapter VII: Simmering Hatred

***

“I hate the slave markets!” Artorius protested. “They are so damned depressing and smelly.”

“Come on,” Diana co
axed, taking him by the hand. “Every Centurion needs to have his own manservant! Besides, I have my ladies-in-waiting, as well as the household slaves, gardeners, cooks, and of course, Proximo. One more isn’t going to break us financially.”

“I just don’t relish the idea of a bondsman who will have access to my person at all times,” Artorius retorted.

“Oh, don’t be such a big girl’s blouse!” Magnus retorted as he walked behind them, grinning from ear to ear while eating an apple absentmindedly. The Norseman had decided to join his Centurion, claiming he had a good eye for quality slaves. “When was the last time one of our officers got stabbed by his own servant?”

“Yes, well you and I have had our fill of slave rebellions,” Artorius replied, causing Magnus to shrug.

“True,” the Tesserarius acknowledged. “Still, as hateful as it is, without slaves the Empire would probably cease to function. Besides, you can look at it this way; you get to save some poor sod from the mines or other worse fates. You ever notice that when you go to a Roman house that the slaves are almost all women? Most don’t have male slaves. That keeps the master from ever having doubts about the paternity of his children, or at least from having doubts coming from within his own household. A male slave who is not fortunate enough to end up as an army officer’s bondsman usually ends up either in the mines or in the arena.”

Slave markets depressed Artorius with good reason. Though he understood the need for human property, seeing the pitiful creatures that skulked amongst the cages disturbed him. The smell of unwashed bodies and flies swarming over the feces was particularly nauseating on this warm morning.  The slave master walked with him, banging on the bars with his staff as Artorius asked to look at ones that might be suitable. Some stared at nothing, not even each other. Each slave had a placard hanging off his or her neck with details about their work history and talents. Prices were left to negotiation.

“What happened to this one,” as he nodded toward a towering youth with a
soiled rag for a bandage on his head.

“He got uppity with me the other day, and I had to smack him alongside of his head wit
h my cudgel,” said the slaver. “Now I have lost money on him since he just sits there and drools. He’ll be fodder in the arena for some wild beasts.”

“Let’s see this one,” Artorius directed, pointing to a young man who already stood by the bars. His head hung slightly, hands folded in front of him, though he did not look ashamed. Artorius
lifted his placard and was intrigued by what he read.

“Says here that you are an experienced metal worker,” he stated.

“Yes, dominus,” the slave replied.

“It also says that you’re a Jew,” Artorius observed.

“Which seems to drive my price down,” the slave remarked, the corners of his mouth twitching.

He then caught Diana’s stern gaze and immediately dropped his eyes, swallowing hard.

“How much?” Artorius asked the slave master.

“Two hundred denarii.”

“I reckon a skilled metal worker rates that price,” Artorius concurred. “However, the slave here brings up a valid point. As a Jew he is bound to be trouble. I’ll give you one hundred and fifty and take him off your hands now.”

“Done,” the slave master replied
hastily with a short bow.

“What is your name?” Artorius asked the slave once they were back at the Century’s barracks.

“Nathaniel
, master,” the slave replied.

“I bought you because skilled metal workers are few and far between, and I need someone who can properly maintain armor and weapons. I don’t suppose you have any other useful skills?”

“I can work with leather, master,” Nathaniel replied. “I am also versed in four different languages; Latin, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Gallic.”

“Don’t know that Aramaic or Hebrew will do me any good,” the
Centurion observed. “However, I can always use a Gallic interpreter. I don’t suppose you can cook?”

“No
, master,” Nathaniel replied, hanging his head.

“Doesn’t
matter,” Artorius said with a dismissive wave. “Proximo can cook well enough. Your purpose will be to keep my armor and equipment maintained. Do you know anything about horses?”

“Yes
, master.”

“Good,” Artorius gave an approving nod. “I have a horse that needs to be fed and walked daily when I’m not using him. Lady Diana takes him out more than I do, so you will need to have him ready for her use at any time.”

“Yes, master.”

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Artorius asked, trying to size up the man.

“I speak when spoken to, master.”

“One thing I wish to know is whether or not you were born into servitude?” Never having owned a slave before
, he had difficulty in assessing just how he was supposed to treat and be familiar with Nathaniel. Ironically, his parents were among the few who had never owned slaves; his father preferring to tend to the vineyards personally. Though the man was his property, he figured it would be best to know as much as he could, since they would be around each other constantly. He supposed that if he wished, he could just ignore the slave like he did anything else.

“I was born a slave,” Nathaniel replied. “My grandparents were servants to King Herod the Great.
”

“Hmm,” Artorius replied with eyebrows raised. He did not know if the slave was telling the truth or just trying to sound more important to his new master. It did not matter, and besides, Artorius had little time for pleasantries with someone who was now his property.
He was then puzzled when he saw a bulge in the side pocket of Nathaniel’s trousers.

“What have you got there?” he asked, pointing to the pocket.
Keeping his eyes lowered, the slave produced a large scroll.

“Just a
book, master,” he replied. “I’ve had it with me this whole time. I promise I did not steal it.”

“Well
, at least I know you can read.” Artorius then took it from him and opened it. It was all very ornate, though in a language he could not understand. “What the hell is this?”

“
This contains the holy writings of my people,” Nathaniel replied. “My previous master let me have it, and the slave drivers never tried to take it from me. They said it kept me quiet.” There was a trace of a smile on his face, though he kept his head lowered respectfully.

Artorius could see the fear in his eyes that he would take the
book from him.

“What sort of writings?” he asked as he
continued to look through it.

“It is called the
Ketuvim
,” Nathaniel explained. “It is the third and final section of our holy Tanakh. Sadly, I have never been able to attain the first two sections, the
Torah
and the
Nevi’im
.”

“And does reading this holy
writing bring you happiness?”

“It does, master. Its words guide my life and help me to find peace.” Nathaniel’s words had an effect on Artorius, and he handed the
scroll back to him.

“If that’s all you need to keep happy, then by all means
keep reading it,” he replied. “Serve me well and perhaps one day you will have your other holy writings.” He watched Nathaniel’s face beaming with joy.

This was all too easy!
The man did not express a desire to win his freedom or anything extravagant; all he wanted was a roll of parchment containing his people’s holy writings. Artorius reasoned that a few denarii spent on a couple scrolls would be an inexpensive way to keep his man’s loyalty.

“Alright, well
, I will show you where all the rags and polish are kept for my kit,” he directed. “I prefer to maintain my gladius myself, although if you have any methods for better maintaining my weapons you are to let me know.”

“Of course, master.”

“Good. I keep my armor and kit at the Century’s billets, so you will be spending time there. After I show you that, I will take you to the manor house. Proximo is the chief slave, and when not taking care of my equipment you will report to him.”

“
I understand, master.”

Tabbo scowled when the
wagon carrying the new Roman magistrate came to a halt. His predecessor had left with little fanfare, as was often the case. He had done his duty, collected the necessary taxes, and was probably glad to be out of the province. Still, Frisia had to be one of the more painless postings for a magistrate since the people were self-governing. One of the magistrate’s duties was to exert Roman influence whenever needed and to relay any issues from the people to the Senate. This had been all but unnecessary since the kingdom came under Roman influence.

The magistrate exited the
wagon and scowled at his surroundings. Tabbo wondered if the man even knew how to smile. The war chief stood to the left, behind the King. Prince Klaes stepped forward as the Roman walked over to them, the never ending scowl still on his face.

“Magistrate Olennius, I am Prince Klaes. Please let me present my father, Dibbald Segon, King of Frisia.”

“Skip the formalities,” Olennius replied raising his hand. “I have more important things to do than exchange pleasantries. Show me to my villa!”

“Of course,” Klaes replied after a quick glance over to his father. “May I also introduce you to Tabbo of
Maloriks? He is war chief and commander of the Frisian army.”

“What army?” Olennius scoffed as he made sure to walk slightly ahead of the Frisians. Behind him was a freedman, who walked with his hands folded in front of him and an apologetic expression upon his face. “Blue
faced barbarians in loincloths? That’s no army, that’s a pathetic rabble.”

“Obviously the magistrate does not know our customs,” Tabbo replied with a chill to his voice. “Our people have never painted themselves blue.”

“Kindly tell your
war chief
not to speak out of turn again, or I shall have him whipped!” Olennius snapped without missing a step. Tabbo instinctively grabbed the handle of his axe, but was quickly stayed by the King, who looked at him and shook his head.

Olennius scowled even harder as he gazed upon the insides of his house. The stone walls were lit with torches, and the floor consisted of blackened slate. He stormed into the back room and threw open the shutters.

“This won’t do at all!” he barked. “A Roman magistrate, living like vile barbarians? I think not!”

“This is still better than most of our people live in,” King Dibbald replied calmly.

“Not my concern if
your
people choose to live like animals,” the magistrate retorted. “A Roman of my importance requires the best when it comes to quality of life...ye gods, there isn’t even a bath in this vile abode!” He turned and snapped his fingers to his freedman, who quickly got out a wax tablet and stylus.

“I will make a list of the upgrades required during my stay,” he continued. “Of course
, these things cost money, and it is only right that the province provide for its governor.”

“Magistrate, you are not a governor,” Dibbald corrected, to which Olennius slammed his fist onto the table in reply.

“How
dare
you tell me what my position is!” he snarled. “My appointment carries the authority of the Emperor himself and does not require the approval of a barbarian king!”

“Apologies, magistrate. I meant no offense.” Dibbald seethed inside, but he gritted his teeth and bore the indignities as best he could. There was nothing unlawful about a magistrate being rude to his provincials, though it did make for a bad start to their relationship.

“Now,” Olennius said, pulling out a scroll. “I also need to go over the taxation of the province. It is quite unsatisfactory to say the least. Cattle hides? Is that all your people are required to pay Rome for the protection we offer?”